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I lead her to the front row of chairs reserved for the family. Jonah and Grace are already here. They rise. Jonah hugs her. My back straightens and my eyes narrow.
Jonah doesn’t notice, which helps because it shows me he’s not trying to rile me up. Though that’s more Ash’s style, not Joe’s.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Jonah,” she says softly.
I grind my teeth at the soft tone for him, at the nothing I got.
Jonah says something under his breath, releasing her.
She wraps her arms around Grace next and Grace squeezes her tight.
“You look beautiful, Grace,” Chloe says into my sister’s hair, looking like she means to share affection instead of it being simple good manners.
More jealousy flares in my system.
“Not as beautiful as you,” my sister returns. “You understood the assignment. Mom would gush over you right now. Thanks for being here.” Grace kisses Chloe’s cheek.
“Of course,” Chloe says softly.
Irritated that I’m so fucking jealous of my siblings, I gesture to the empty seat beside Grace.
My wife sits. I sit beside her and wrap my arm around the back of her chair, giving in to the urge to run my thumb along her clavicle.
She shivers, then goes stiff at my touch, but says nothing.
Her eyes land on the casket and I watch as sadness seeps into her features.
Sadness. For my mother. Kindness to my brother and sister.
Despite everything, she’s still so good, so caring. Because it’s who she is. I chose well.
In actuality, it feels more like I was chosen. Chosen to make her happy. To give her everything she wants.
If only I had more of her goodness in me. I seem to have it only where a few people are concerned, mostly her. My eyes land on the exorbitantly priced and decorated box containing the empty shell that used to be one of the other few people that I give an actual shit about.
This ceremonial nonsense solves nothing. I don’t know how it can bring anyone closure to put their loved one’s remains in a box and stare at it.
I want this over. I want to take my wife home and resume my plan of winning her over. I want to fuck her. Plant a baby in her. The math tells me she should be fertile around now. I’ve been thinking about this fact non-stop for the past twenty-four hours. The idea of planting my baby in her might be what has kept me from spinning out of control these past few days. Imagining my hands on her belly, feeling our child move. Imagining holding her while she holds a little bundle.
I’ve given her some space after her fury the other day, but I’m done. No more space. The less space the better.
I walked away from her fury the other day, partly to simmer my anger at her reaction, at her accusation despite the fact I’ve been up front about who I am and what I’ve done.
I started to feel impatient, started to get angry at her for resisting, for shouting at me in anger. For accusing me of lying. I’d never, ever physically hurt her; I know that in my gut. But in the moment, I needed to get away to make absolute sure. Because Chloe actually made my trigger finger twitch, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it and I didn’t fuckin’ trust myself. But the moment I was away from her, I felt like I was too far away.
I have no intention of staying away. She might think of me as a murderer, a psycho she wants nothing to do with, but tonight I’m going to do my very fucking best to get what I want most right now. What I need most.
Planting my child in her could give me some measure of my own closure for losing one of the few people I care about. Creating a new one to care about. One that will tie me and Chloe together permanently. I’ll show her how good of a husband, father, and provider I’ll be.
I’ll love my own child, won’t I? I think so. A piece of me, yeah, but more importantly, a piece of both me and Chloe.
I’ll never give up on my goals, on working at convincing her. But the past few days, I’ve asked myself, what if it never happens? What if I find myself doomed to want something in my grasp but still out of reach? My trigger finger starts to twitch now at these thoughts. I frown at it and sit on my hand. It’s been happening a lot the last few days, since my mother died, especially since Chloe screamed in my face that she’d never love me.
I need to hold steady, get through this funeral, get home and make love to my wife. Make our baby. Find my center. Daily goals. Is Chloe happy? Does Chloe love me? Once I get checkmarks on all of that, the twitching will stop.
I’ll make her the family she's been wanting. She’ll have a man who will desire her endlessly. A group of people around her that she can shower with love while having it reciprocated. I’ve done the math, and it has to be the answer.
It’s not only the answer for Chloe. It’s my answer, too. My mother didn’t share the love she got from her husband with us, her kids. She kept my father’s affection like a hoarder; all for herself. The second he aimed any of it in our direction, she suddenly needed more from him.
